


Oreo & Juliet (Or, The Five Times Oreo Ruined the Moment and the One Time He Caused It)

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: Union J (Band)
Genre: 5 Times, Cats, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly two months of living with Josh, George is sure of one thing: that little black and white menace does not deserve a name as sweet as <i>Oreo</i>, but George would still not rather live anywhere else. Maybe that's two things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oreo & Juliet (Or, The Five Times Oreo Ruined the Moment and the One Time He Caused It)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : None! Vague mentions of masturbation.  
>  **Disclaimer** : We don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from Union J, X-Factor, Crown Management, RCA, Sony, ITV, or AlphaDog Management, OR SyCo Inc., Columbia Records, or any other affiliated parties. No libel intended.

**001.**  
It's just past half-three in the morning.

George has been sitting beside Josh for six hours, his socked toes bouncing because he can't keep his legs still, as they play through _Halo_.

They've a wake-up call in just a bit over three hours but at this point George figures it's probably better for them to just stay up and power through tomorrow - today - with shots of espresso. Whose idea was this again? They should make sure not to have these ideas.

As the night has gone, Josh's shoulders have drooped slowly closer and closer to George's, and now they're touching, leaning heavily against each other with the camaraderie of the sleepless.

The lights are off and there's only the soft blue-ish light from the screen, tinted with the occasional orange - en vogue sci-fi colours - illuminating the room. George blinks and then can't stop for a bit, trying to wake up his eyes.

"Gerupp, Georgie," Josh mutters, nudging him with his elbow, but it's half-hearted and they both know it. It's easier to rest his head against Josh's shoulder than it is to answer, so that's what George does.

"C'm on," Josh says, jostling George a little. He's not really putting much effort into it.  
"Nnn," George whines and turns more into Josh's body heat.

He's warm and he smells good and he's comfortable. He's Josh.

Who sighs. "Alright, alright." There's a distinct silence when the game is paused.

"Sleep?" George asks and he's not sure if he's asking whether Josh really wants to sleep for the measly three hours they've left or whether he's asking him to let George sleep. He's quite comfortable where he is, at the moment, though he supposes the floor's a bit cold.

Josh nods and tucks an arm around George's shoulders to make them both more comfortable. "You can go ahead. I'm not tired. Too nervous."

George works his eyes open with no small amount of effort and tilts his head up to look at Josh just as Josh is glancing down to give George a nervous smile.

The television stops glowing, and the only light left is what reflects off of their eyes in the small dabs and smears of streetlight that peeks through their curtains. It's never really dark in London.

Their noses brush.

George's breath stutters as he inhales a little too sharply through his nose, heartbeat suddenly racing and chasing away the tired fog in his head to replace it with a nervous alertness. He's sure Josh could hear it too, in the quiet of the room and he's glad he probably can't see his blush. His eyes are wide, trying to see more than they can and there's a list of at least two dozen reasons this should be awkward and a bad idea running through his head.

But he's tired and possibly a bit loopy with it, so George ignores them and bumps his nose into Josh's again. Deliberately.

There's a little breath like Josh is preparing to say something and then--

"Shit!" George yells as a cat dive-bombs his head from the back of the sofa.

The clatter of the controller as it slips from his lap onto the floor is loud even after George's surprised yell. George curls forward instinctively, trying to get out of harm's way, but Oreo hangs on to his t-shirt and - ouch - to the skin beneath it.

"Oreo!" Josh chastises, like it bloody matters with a cat. It's not like the little beast cares what they want him to do. George reaches back to get him off his shoulder, just as he feels the weight lift. Josh must have him.

George jerks up and the top of his head collides with the bottom of Josh's jaw.

"Ow, shit, George! I nearly bit my bloody tongue off!"

"Sorry! Your cat hates me!" (He does, the little bastard. George is sure of it. Oreo can tell that George wants to steal away Oreo's time from Josh and he is determined to sabotage it.

That's the only explanation at this point.)

 **002.**  
"Morning," Josh says, voice lower than it'll be all day with the sleep still coating it, and leans his forearms on the breakfast counter, letting his head rest between them.

"No hair where the food goes," George reminds him and returns to his doodle pad, sketching out lines and curves that don't belong to anything specific yet.

"There's no food there," Josh grumbles. "Stupid rule."

"There's my cereal," George says, gesturing to the bowl that he's, admittedly, pushed out of the way when he pulled his sketch pad closer with the itch in his fingers to draw something that he sometimes gets. "And you need to be awake anyway, so head up."

Josh tilts his chin and gives George a hangdog look. "Make me breakfast?"

"Why?" George adds another swash to his paper and realizes that he's sketching Josh, the long curved outline of his slump when he's still tired.

"You're best at it," Josh says. "You take care of me."

George tries not to flush and tries not to angrily scribble over the beginnings of his sketch or crumple up the paper. He tries not getting up to get Josh breakfast as well, but there's only so much he can accomplish on an early morning, so he turns the sketch over as nonchalantly as he can and pets Josh's hair, half hoping he'll just go back to lying on the counter while George pours him a bowl of cereal as well.

Josh sighs happily at the head-petting and watches George with one bleary eye as he sets about making the cereal.

"Milk first!"

George rolls his eyes. "Only weirdos put the milk in first."

"Milk first," Josh insists. "Stays crispier."

"You're crispier." George pours the milk in first. "Breakfast, your highness."

"My best little househusband." Josh smiles and finally sits up, taking the spoon George offers and digging it into his cereal.

George rolls his eyes and decidedly does not giggle.

"D'you want me to pack you lunch and dust the shelves while you're at work too?"

"Nah. 's take-your-husband-to-work day, innit?" Josh says with a grin in the corner of his lips before shovelling another spoon full of cereal in his mouth. The way George watches him eat is probably a little creepy, but Josh doesn't seem to notice, brow furrowing with a though. "Although I suppose that's every day if you're in a band together."

"Well, Jaymi doesn't," George jokes, but his stomach twists with a flash of worry that he's taken the joke too far. Jaymi really does have an almost-husband. George is only Josh's roommate. (And Oreo's scratching post.)

Josh laughs though and the worry seeps out of George's stomach.

"Jaymi takes Olly along often enough. I swear he was at half the shows on the X-Factor tour. I'm not even surprised anymore when he pops up at a photoshoot or something."

"We can sub him in for you today," George says. "You'll never make it on time, slowpoke."

"Heeeey," Josh whines. "You're supposed to be nice to me and pay me compliments, _husband_."

George doesn't quite want to play. He stays on the other side of the counter and takes up his sketchpad again, but flips to a fresh page and decidedly begins working on a skyline.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to..." Josh says, tone apologetic, but he trails off. George can't exactly blame him for not knowing what to apologize for. He plays along with this game often enough, after all. And if Josh ever came out with "sorry for stringing you along" he'd probably dig a hole into the ground to hide in if it doesn't open up to swallow him.

"Thanks for breakfast."

George grunts. "Just cereal."

Josh touches George's wrist. "Still. You put the milk in first."

 _Well, you asked me to,_ doesn't quite seem an appropriate response, but it's the only one George has got. Through the racing of his mind he doesn't notice Oreo suddenly up on the counter until he laps at the milk in George's own bowl.

"Oreo!" he snaps, startling the demon fuzzball into tipping over the bowl.

There's cat and milk and bits of soggy oat flake everywhere and the telltale scratch-scratch-scratch of wet claws on wood as Oreo goes shooting away.

"Oh, dear," Josh sighs. He gives George a half-smile. "I'll go discipline the children, Mother."

There's something scathing about always being cast as the girl in these scenarios on the tip of George's tongue, but he leaves it there and instead gets his sketch pad out of harm's way before it, too, gets soggy with milk. He puts his sketch pad down a safe distance from the milk and then goes to take their bowls to the sink. He's bowed his head against the thick silence that suddenly hangs in the kitchen and makes to shuffle around Josh, but when he reaches for Josh's bowl, Josh reaches for his wrist. Josh is much closer than he thought when his head snaps up to look at him, expectant.

"Oh!" George is hushed, blinking up at the sleepy creases where Josh's pillow dug into his face. "Can I help you?"

Josh opens his mouth as if to say something but then doesn't, his eyes flitting over George's face instead, studying him.

"Sorry about Oreo," Josh says eventually, quietly, because they're still unnecessarily close and with his eyes seemingly stuck to where George was licking his lips only a moment ago and is now trying not to bite them. It doesn't seem entirely like what he wants to say. He _is_ staring at George's lips, isn't he?

"'s alright," George says. "Knew what I was getting into with you and your baby, didn't I?"

Josh can't help grinning at that. He doesn't step any further away. "He's a good little boy."

There's a massive clatter and the sound of something like marbles or pellets spilling all over the hardwood floor in the living room.

George rolls his eyes and ducks back to the sink. "Sounds like your good little boy's found something new to destroy. Besides me and my things, for a change."

 **003.**  
The thing about suddenly living alone and suddenly having money is that George can buy, really, whatever he'd like, even things that are silly or useless or _inappropriate_ or take up a lot of space. He goes out with JJ or Jaymi or, once, Nick Grimshaw, and he comes back to the flat with assorted strange ephemera that make Josh look at him askance as he drags them into the flat and props them up somewhere.

Which is pretty much how this time goes as well, only that it's Josh's phone ringing, instead of the door bell when George can't be bothered to look for his key.

 _George Shelley_.

"Yeah?"

"Joshy, can you come help me carry something up, please?

Josh sighs and weighs the consequences of letting George get flattened by whatever he's bought falling on him in the stairwell versus the bother of putting on trousers and shoes and helping his friend.

In the end he heaves a mighty sigh, just so George knows that he's making a big sacrifice here and also that George needs to control his spending habits.

"Hang on, I need to get on some trousers. I'll be right down."

"Okay." George sounds like he's grunting. "I'll be down here. Under a box."

"Well, then I'll know where to find you," Josh says and hangs up without giving George the chance at a come-back of his own. They'll be here all day if he doesn't.

After the trousers, while he's searching for his left shoe (and then dumping his left shoe out in Oreo's litterbox), he wonders whether George has bought another surfboard (they live in _London_ ) or a giant lamp shaped like a naked mermaid or maybe just a box of very dense rocks.

He really hopes it's not the rocks.

What it is, is a brown, rectangular cardboard box that George is very decidedly not lying under, but holding propped up against the wall next to the entrance.

"Do I want to know what's in there?" he asks and props the door open with the little stopper that lies next to it.

"It's a pinball machine!"

George is buzzing brighter than a fluorescent, and Josh just stares at him.

"And?"

"And it's ours now!" George explains, looking at Josh like he's clearly misunderstanding how monumentally awesome this is. "And it's a pinball machine!"

"You play pinball?" Josh decides to ask, before going to grab for the box.

"Well, I do now. Everyone loves pinball. It's a _classic_."

Josh decides to ignore all arguments in favour of pinball until they've actually got it up and running.

"D'you want to go backwards or should I?"

"You're sturdier than I am, so you should push and go forward," George says. "And I'll steer and go backward."

Josh bites his tongue.

"Just watch your step," he says, not entirely convinced this is their best option. It is easier for him to take the brunt of the weight if he can lean the box against his chest though and George seems quite used to navigating stairs backwards, so they manage to make it up to their flat without any major disasters.

The box is, however, _a million kilos_.

"Next time," Josh huffs, setting the box down carefully and trying to catch his breath while George rifles through his pockets for his keys, "if you can't carry it alone, you don't buy it."

George gives a little gasp that probably means _yeah, okay_ , and then they're falling through the door. There's a scamper as Oreo darts under the sofa and away from the abomination coming through their door.

Better than having to worry about him escaping out the door anyway.

"No further than the living room," Josh says.

"Of... course," George huffs. "It's... the new center... piece... of our home."

Josh huffs out a laugh and almost drops the wretched box.

"Don't make me laugh!"

Finally they wedge the pinball machine through the door and collapse.

"It's a thousand degrees," George gasps. "Why's it so hot?"

"Cause it's summer," Josh says and lies down on the cold floor. "And you're an idiot who's wearing a jumper."

"I like jumpers," George says crossly. He flops onto the floor and peels the sweater off, all the same.

Josh briefly wonders if it'd be inappropriate to take off his trousers, but he wasn't going to put any on if George had just come home without requiring him to help carry a _pinball machine_ so he figures he might as well. It really is a thousand degrees.

"Lush," George chides, rolling over onto his stomach and pushing himself up. He crawls over to the counter and heaves himself up to find a pair of scissors to cut through all of the packaging. "Help me build the pinball machine."

Josh tries not to stare, but George's back is sticky and shiny with a thing layer of sweat. There are slight shadows at the base of his spine; not dimples exactly, but hints of them. He looks away and blames his glowing cheeks on the exertion.

"D'you even know how to build a pinball machine?"

"It can't be that hard." George is always so goddamn optimistic. "I know what a pinball machine sounds like!"

If Josh could lift his hand he'd facepalm. As it is he rolls over and whines into the floor.

" _George._ That literally makes no sense. There's wires and software and things involved."

George leans back out of the refrigerator he's just opened to get out two cold Cokes and looks so abashed and downtrodden that Josh has to sit up and give him an encouraging smile.

"We'll figure it out, yeah? I'm sure there has to be something about it on the internet."

George brightens a little as he nods.

"The internet has everything."

Josh rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know, I've seen your Search history."

"They're interesting!" George insists. "And about me!"

"I really don't think I want to know more," Josh says and crawls over to the sofa and his iPad, pulling up google to search for... _assembly of pinball machine_.

" _Fourteen-step video_?" Josh cries. " _George, what have you brought into our home_?"

George smiles at him winningly and holds out one of the cans of coke like a peace offering.

"A pinball machine? I thought surely you could do this? You're so good at these things."

"Knowing IT sales is not the same as being able to do home assembly of obsolete arcade games," Josh sniffs. He takes the Coke, though, and George watches Josh's throat move as he swallows the first, fizziest sip.

"You did the shelf too though," George says and swallows around nothing but the beat of his heart, pressing the cool coke against his cheek. At least he has an excuse if he's flushed. "And that's still standing."

"That was hammering a board into the wall." Josh huffs an impressive sigh and sets the Coke down on the floor before cracking his knuckles, all nine that crack. "Fine. I'll be your manly man. Let's build this."

"Yay!" George cheers quietly and sets his own coke down before grabbing for Josh's iPad and playing the first video.

"Step one is opening the box. I think we can open the box."

They do manage to open the box, using the little Swiss Army knife that Josh has had on his belt for years and seldom has the occasion to use for anything except the bottle opener.

"Okay, there should be extra little boxes with the legs somewhere. We take those out too," George says, looking up from the iPad in time to see Josh lift a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

" _We_?" he says, but fishes the legs out as well.

"Well, yeah," George says. "We are building it together. And we earnt the money together. It's ours. Joint custody."

Josh seems to think this over for a moment.

"Do we have joint custody of Oreo as well? Or is he still just mine," he then asks.

"Before sunrise he's your kitten," George says with a grin.

Josh looks down to smile at that because this time, his teeth will show. He's positive.

"Anyway," George says, trying to speak over the frog settled in his throat. "We're supposed to cut open the box so we can get to the actual machine and then screw on the legs. But not screw them too tightly, cause that comes later."

"Right," Josh says. "You never want to just jump in with a good hard screw."

George bursts into a squeaky giggle, clutching one of the machine's legs like it can protect him from Josh's dirty humour. He thinks he should probably be used to it by now, but it still catches him by surprise sometimes. Josh seems smug and bumps their shoulders together.

"Gotta properly wind them up first," he adds.

"Stop," George whines. "Let's just build this and then I want a game."

"Hmm," Josh hums. "We can play games."

They cut the bands to keep the game head up, with all of its flashing lights and leaderboard for scores. They banter back and forth about which scorer initials they're claiming, _A.S.S._ and _T.I.T._ and _C.O.K._

"That one's nothing," George protests, panting under the weight of supporting the head while Josh pokes all around underneath, looking for the allen wrench.

"It's cock, you cock," Josh grunts.

"Well, then I can take _D.I.K._ ," George shoots back, waving a hand at Josh to pass him that key thingy they're supposed to use to lock the head in place.

Josh finally manages to get the allen wrench into its socket and they take turns turning the head into place. It's still a thousand degrees in the flat and the bubbles in their Cokes have gone and the sun is baking the air through their window.

Josh looks up at George, shirtless and skinny and soft-bellied, standing above him where he's lying under the rickety machine.

George is looking back down at him, a question on his face, but Josh doesn't really have an answer for him so he just shrugs a bit and then reaches out to stroke his hand over George's bare foot.

"I think this was a good idea. We'll have fun with this."

George squeaks a little and dances where Josh's touched him. The machine gives a worrying lurch over Josh's head and he does a _Temple of Doom_ roll out from beneath it.

"Don't tickle me," George stresses. "Not when I'm holding two hundred kilos of precious machine over your head."

"Duly noted," Josh says, eyes wide and heart possibly hammering from _being scared for his life_. "Maybe I should hold it?"

"Maybe I should hold it?"  
  
"Could be a good idea," George agrees. "You're beef compared to me."  
  
"Spaghetti is beef compared to you."  
  
"Spaghetti comes with beef, more often than not," George says when Josh sidles up next to him to take over holding the machine. When George moves away their skin sticks together for a moment from the sweat coating both of them and the feeling of it leaves goosebumps in its wake.  
  
"That doesn't even make sense," Josh says.  
  
"Shush. Just let me get the legs on so we can stop holding this up."  
  
They do, and the rest goes more easily: deciding who gets to play with the keys, the coin doors, the wires.  
  
It's only once they get to testing the switches that they both crowd in again, both of them wanting to roll the little ball over the various pressure and light barrier points. George is still warm and Josh seems to be radiating heat where he's pressed up to his side, but he doesn't want to step away.  
  
"Oy!" Josh protests after he gets a sharp little elbow to the kidney, "Stop hogging the machine!"  
  
"It's mine," George argues, shuffling over to hip-check Josh out of the way. "Can't hog what's yours."  
  
"I thought we had joint custody." Josh scuffles right back, and then he's behind George, wrapping his arms around George's chest to pull him out of the way.  
  
George tries very hard not to hold his breath or anything because Josh could _feel_ that what with how wrapped around him he is, but he thinks his muscles do a telling jumping thing anyway. And if it's not that, it's probably the way he has no idea how to deal with all of Josh's chest suddenly pressed to his back and consequently just goes limp against him. The tips of his fingers that still hold on to the ball run cold with nerves and he hopes to god Josh can't feel the spike in his heartbeat.  
  
"There's a good George," Josh murmurs, and it makes something spike hot in George's belly.  
  
Josh sets his chin down on George shoulder and takes one hand off George's chest to push his fingers between George's and take the ball from him.  
  
It rolls when he sets it back into the game's case, but that's nothing compared to the noise his blood is making rushing in his ears.  
  
George feels like all the hairs on his body are standing to attention, especially where the warm gust of Josh's breath hits his skin. Josh takes George's hand in his again then and makes him roll the ball over the next switch and George concentrates on the little _ding_ that sounds when it's activated and not on the way Josh's fingers are curled over his. The ball rolls on and neither of them seem to pay it much attention because then there's a clatter as it falls to the floor at their feet. George doesn't bend to pick it up. Neither does Josh.  
  
There's a hot silence around them, the kind that summer afternoons in the city are made of, a false silence full of car horns and the softly sweeping blades of their ceiling fan, all dampened by the immediacy of their own clean-boy sweat smell and breath.  
  
There are words clawing their way up George's throat and he's not sure if he's supposed to stop them from tumbling out his mouth anymore.  
  
With a sharp skitter across the floor, the brand-new pinball goes rolling. Oreo pounces, batting at it with delight.  
  
"Oreo, no, that's for daddy to play with," Josh says and scampers after Oreo to rescue their ball before it gets lost in that parallel universe where all cat toys end up sooner or later. George clutches the edges of the pinball machine and takes a deep breath. _The cat has to go._  
  
 **004.**  
George more stumbles than walks through their front door and doesn't bother trying to get all the way to his bedroom, instead deciding to fall down onto their sofa with a pathetic little whine. There's still a stampede of elephants practicing for Swan Lake in his head and he's just about had it with this day.  
  
(The myth of partying like a rockstar must be a lie, is the moral of George's day. Trying to be cheerful and interactive with Nick bleeding Grimshaw at half-seven in the bloody morning with a hangover from hell is not as easy as Harry Styles makes it look.)  
  
"Are you still headachey?" Josh asks, kneeling down next to the sofa and carding his fingers through George's hair. George makes a noise he hopes conveys "yes, pity me and also keep doing that, that's nice". He mustn't manage it entirely because Josh takes his hand away shortly after and puts it on George's forehead instead.  
  
"You're quite hot," Josh says, a frown on his face. "Hangovers shouldn't last that long anyway. I hope you're not coming down with anything."  
  
"Noo," George protests, because he simply can't afford any illness right now.  
  
"D'you need a paracetamol?" Josh asks. "Tea? Lemon, honey?"  
  
"Tea," George says. Tea heals everything. It's a Shelley panacea. "Thanks, honey."  
  
Josh chuckles. "Close your eyes, get a nap in. I can tell you're delirious if you're calling me 'honey' after I just asked if you wanted any."  
  
Oh.  
  
Well, maybe George is still a little bit drunk. That might be a thing. Never again. Well, he'll still get drunk. But never tequila, never again.  
  
Except in margaritas maybe.  
  
Lying in a haphazard heap on the sofa isn't exactly the most comfortable position to be in, so George wiggles around to stretch out along it and fishes for one of the cushions to lay his head on. He presses the back of his hand against his forehead and sighs at how blessedly cool it feels.  
  
George is tall enough that his head and feet both hang a bit off the edges of the sofa, but it's comfortable, like that's helping blood get into his brain and alcohol to drain out through his pores.  
  
And then --  
  
"Ouch!" George twitches his foot against the sudden pins-and-needles.  
  
Odd.  
  
Maybe it's a stroke.  
  
There's a little pause, and then --  
  
"Ouch!"  
  
George lifts his head just enough to see the little black tail swish back and forth.  
  
"Josh!" he calls. "Your cat is maiming me again. Do something."  
  
Maybe he should just get in the bath tub. Cats hate water, right? He bets the little fluffy demon won't follow him into the bath.  
  
Then again, Josh probably won't either.  
  
Hmm. _Tea_.  
  
Yellow eyes pop up into George's line of vision as the silent weight of a cat lands on George's stomach.  
  
George tries to remember if you're supposed to try and stare a cat down or if that's provoking them. Probably, he figures, they just don't care.  
  
"If you swipe at my face, I'm pushing you off," he tells Oreo.  
  
Oreo kneads his paws against George's belly and stirs up the remainder of the tequila and ill-advised coffee he'd slurped at the Beeb.  
  
"Okay, no, not a good idea either," George says and lifts Oreo up to set him down on his chest. "Never thought I'd voluntarily get you closer to my face, you little menace."  
  
Oreo's answer is a purr and more kneading of George's skin. George really hopes he doesn't catch a nipple.  
  
"Hey, fuzzball," George grumbles, closing his eyes. He pokes Oreo in what is probably the equivalent of the elbow. "Stop that."  
  
Little claws come out and cling into George's shirt.  
  
And skin.  
  
"No," George says and taps at Oreo's paws, trying to get him to pull out his claws. "Why do you hate me so much, you demon?"  
  
Tiny kitten teeth clamp onto the curve of George's thumb.  
  
George is really not looking forward to when Oreo is fully grown with actual teeth and actual claws and this is all going to actually hurt.  
  
"It's 'cause he likes you," Josh says somewhere behind George's head and George just about jumps out of his skin.  
  
"I'm sure that's categorically untrue. You don't bite people you like."  
  
Oreo certainly doesn't; he even gives up his favorite chew toy and bounces off George's chest to twine his clumsy-graceful way around Josh's ankles, purring like he's a normal cat and not a minion of hell.  
  
"Oreo is just bad at showing affection, isn't he?" Josh coos, reaching down to stroke the kitten from nose to tail. He sets a mug of tea on the side table just within George's reach.  
  
George lets his eyes fall closed again now that he's out of the way of teeth.  
  
Until --  
  
He flies upright, rubbing his triceps. "Ow! Did you _bite_ me?"  
  
"Wanted to see what all the fuss was about," Josh says cheekily. "You must be quite tasty since Oreo can't seem to get enough of you."  
  
And then he's gone, Oreo trotting at his heels as he disappears into his bedroom and shuts the door to give George a bit of peace and quiet to nurse his hangover (and maybe his heart).  
  
 **005.**  
After nearly two months of living with Josh, George is sure of one thing: that little black and white menace does not deserve a name as sweet as _Oreo_ but George would still not rather live anywhere else. Maybe that's two things?  
  
But after nearly two months, George is also sure of a third thing.  
  
He has never, in his life, met anyone as slobbish as Josh.  
  
Really, he's not quite sure how Josh even does it, but he's pretty sure that's one of his socks sticking out from between the sofa cushions.  
  
Growing up in a house full of people, George learned early that the only way to keep his belongings to himself was to keep them tidy enough to tell if they'd been taken. This, this... abomination that is Josh's things all mixed up with his own (save the pinball machine that they share) is enough to make his eyes twitch.  
  
"Josh!" he calls, loudly and completely aware he probably sounds like one of his parents but there has to be a line about this somewhere and he's pretty sure that Josh has crossed it.  
  
"Hm?" Josh pops up from somewhere behind him, exectant look on his face. George points at the sock with a decidedly firm gesture.  
  
"You can be as messy as you like in your own room, but _keep it in your room_."  
  
"But it's so convenient."  
  
It takes a minute for George to work it out in his head before he groans and smacks Josh in the gut. " _Is that your wank-sock_?"  
  
"What?" Josh asks, a bit of a flush settling on his cheeks before he dives for the sofa, poking around it before pulling out a second sock. "NO! I get cold feet!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Christ, what do you think I do when you're not here? Why would I wank off in our _living room?_ "  
  
"I don't know! The television is here!" George yells, and pointedly does not mention that when he was home alone the week before he'd been too lazy to go to his bedroom and had done just that.  
  
"I don't even watch porn!" Josh yells back. A stunned silence falls for a moment then. Judging by the look on Josh's face he hadn't exactly meant to say that and George doesn't really know what to do with that.  
  
"Really?" George asks.  
  
"No one's ever really attractive in porn, are they?" Josh says with a shrug.  
  
"D'you wank with a mirror then?"  
  
Welp.  
  
George didn't mean that one.  
  
Or, well, didn't mean to _say_ it, more like. Also really doesn't mean to think about just that scenario because there's a time and a place, George Shelley and this is _not it_.  
  
It might have been about a week ago, same place, but. Not now.  
  
"No," Josh says finally, with a carefully measured clip.  
  
"Oh my god, you do," George says and steps forward to poke Josh in the ribs. "You do, you do, admit it!"  
  
"No!" Josh repeats and tries to grab for George's hands to stop his poking, but George has been playing this game for years and he knows how to evade Josh's hands.  
  
"You do! You like to stare your own face in a mirror while you wank 'cause no one in porn is pretty enough for you!"  
  
"Well, if you were in porn, I wouldn't have to!"  
  
If anything was gonna stun George into silence it was probably going to be this. He can't help how his mouth drops open a little and his eyes go wide, his hands still where they're pushing into Josh's t-shirt. Josh's hands are cold and clammy when they take the chance to pry George's off him, but he doesn't really push him away, just laces their fingers together.  
  
"You," George tries to say, but it comes out squeaky and he has to clear his throat feeling more aware of every awkward sound his body makes than he ever has. "What?"  
  
"Nothing! It was just a bad comeback; you know I can't think on my feet," Josh blusters.  
  
 _Not true_ says the back of George's mind.  
  
"You think I'm pretty," George goads, clinging to Josh's hands and ignoring the other part of what Josh said.  
  
"No, I don't! You're terrible, face-wise, and your breath smells of old coffee!"  
  
"Excuse you? My breath it always minty fresh!" George says and pushes his face right up into Josh's as if to go and prove it by... what? Breathing on him?  
  
 _Bad idea, bad idea. Abort._  
  
Because now their faces are less than inch apart, George's head tipped down and Josh's tipped up and they're so close that George can count Josh's eyelashes.  
  
Maybe George should do that. It'd certainly make not staring at Josh's lips a whole lot easier.  
  
But then Josh closes his eyes, and his hands tighten in the short sleeves of George's shirt as he leans in close enough that George can feel the ghost of his lips on his mouth.  
  
Now that Josh has let go of his hands, George is suddenly overly aware that he should do something with them, and he's just about to reach out for Josh's waist, a chorus of _this is it_ drumming in his head, when Josh flinches and backs away with a sharp hiss. George jerks his hands back, an apology already half-formed on his tongue, but then he follows Josh's gaze to his leg, where Oreo clings to his jeans.  
  
 _Reaow!_ Oreo insists as he attempts to climb Josh like a tree, which George had sort of hoped would be his job now. Oreo seems exorbitantly determined to scale Josh. The thing’s apparently taken up rappelling.  
  
Josh heaves a sigh and plucks Oreo off his leg, pecking him between the ears.  
  
"You're a menace," he says and then, with a brief glance at George, grabs his socks.  
  
"Sorry about..." he says, waving them about. "I'll just. Yeah."  
  
With a final hesitant smile he disappears down the corridor and back into his room, leaving George with the merry-go-round of his thoughts and definitely absolutely no plans of caticide.  
  
As Josh slips down the corridor, his back hunched down like he's embarrassed, Oreo's head pops over Josh's shoulder and he fixes George with a gloating yellow stare.  
  
 **& 01.**  
George is somewhere in that state where he's slowly drifting into wakefulness but if he's lucky enough he'll get another hour or two of sleep. Mornings where he can sleep in are becoming rare enough for that to feel like a treat. So of course that's when his bedroom door swings open and Josh whispers his name.  
  
"George? Is Oreo with you?"  
  
"What?" George mumbles into his pillow, brain not entirely up to speed. Why would he be?  
  
"It's just I've not seen him since around midday and I'm worried he might've slipped out a window or something."  
  
George sits up and rubs his eyes. "No, I've not seen him. He doesn't come in here much anymore. Bored of biting me, I guess."  
  
"Oh, alright," Josh says. "Sorry for waking you."  
  
"No, it's fine. Want me to help you look for him?"  
  
Josh shrugs one shoulder. He always looks very soft in the morning, all skin and ridiculous _Believe the Hype_ boxers. "I know you hate him. You don't have to."  
  
George sighs.  
  
"I don't hate him. We're mutually antagonistic. And I certainly don't hate you," he says and sits up, rubbing his hands over his face in the hopes of making himself a bit more alert.  
  
"He's not antagonizing you," Josh says. "He just thinks you really suck at being a cat."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Cats assume everyone is a cat. You're a giant hairless cat who sucks at being a cat and he's trying to toughen you up and take care of you," Josh says.  
  
"Oh," George says. Somehow, in animal world, that makes sense. Maybe. Probably, if Josh says so? He's the one with the cat, after all. He should know, shouldn't he?  
  
"Then why's he nice to you? You're not exactly an actual cat either."  
  
"But I suck less at being one," Josh says, opening George's closet and moving clothes aside to look for Oreo on the floor. "I'm bigger and stronger and forage my own food."  
  
"So what you're saying is Oreo wants me to learn to cook?" George asks, disbelief evident in his voice. "Are you sure you're not using this as an excuse?"  
  
"Cooking's not foraging," Josh says dismissively. "I know you cook. You made fajitas that time."  
  
"So what do I do? Take him grocery shopping?" George asks and finally gets out of bed, smoothing down the blanket just to make sure Oreo is, in fact, not asleep somewhere on his bed and he just hadn't noticed him.  
  
"I don't know that you can do anything," Josh says, digging around under George's desk like a nutter. "You're his kitten."  
  
"I'm his kitten," George repeats and then resigns himself to shuffling around their entire flat in search of a cat who's not outgrown being a kitten himself all that long ago but has apparently decided to adopt him. "Cats are weird."  
  
And elusive.  
  
And possibly missing.  
  
By the time they've combed both bedrooms and the living room and not found him, there's a distinct tremor in the air around Josh and George can tell that he's using every nerve he has to suppress his worry.  
  
"Hey," he says softly, reaching out to Josh, not quite sure if it's a good or bad idea to touch him right now. "We'll find him."  
  
Mentally he tries to go through every kind of cat cliché he's ever heard. Oreo's not in either of their beds or locked in either of their closets. He's not in the living room, not on any of the window sills. The kitchen has plenty cupboards he could've slipped in and then there's still the bathroom.  
  
Josh nods tersely. "I'll check the bathroom."  
  
George pads off to look in the spare room. Josh only comes in here to use the treadmill, so it isn't likely that Oreo followed his scent here, but it's possible. There's a hamper of Josh's dirty laundry in the corner that George hasn't gotten to yet -- because Josh never will, if they're honest -- so after riffling through that, George turns to go.  
  
And pauses.  
  
The door to the washer is slightly ajar, and George remembers that he'd thrown his own load of laundry into it last night but never actually run the clothes.  
  
He kneels down in front of the machine and opens the door.  
  
Little yellow eyes peer up at him from under a pink henley shirt. _Mraow?_  
  
"Hey, Dad," George murmurs, reaching in and carefully coaxing the kitten into his arms. Generally, this doesn't go well.  
  
But today, Oreo lets George scoop him right up, probably lulled by having slept surrounded in the smell of George's shirts (and dirty pants; kinky cat, apparently). Oreo even purrs, for once, rubbing his face against George's chest.  
  
"Your Joshy was worried about you," George informs Oreo, rubbing along his curved little kitty spine. "Let's go show him you're alright."  
  
"Josh?" George calls quietly. Since Oreo seems to be willing to play nice, he doesn't want to suddenly startle him into violence again. Josh's head pops out of the bathroom and George lifts Oreo a little higher to draw Josh's attention. "Look who I found."  
  
It's like Christmas dawning on Josh's face and he rushes over, arms around both George and the cat. "You found him!"  
  
"Yeah, he was asleep in the washer. Probably got hair all over my clothes, but he's fine," George says and watches fondly as Josh pushes his face into Oreo's fur.  
  
Oreo wriggles in George's arms so that Josh can kiss all over his little kitty face. Josh's quiff is brushing up at George's arms and chest and it tickles, but for once, George doesn't want to squirm and giggle.  
  
He feels inexplicably happy and relieved that they found Oreo without too much fuss, considering he and the cat don't exactly get along. But Oreo's warm against his chest, there's a smile pulling at his lips and the sun's just come up and he sort of just feels... good.  
  
"Want to go back to bed, maybe?"  
  
George blinks. "Oh, yeah, if you want, you can. I think I'm just awake now, though."  
  
"Yeah, me too. I was just gonna cuddle Oreo, probably," Josh says. George gets the distinct feeling he's maybe supposed to be picking up on something here, but it's still too early for subtlety. "And," Josh adds, pointedly, "He seems to be enjoying cuddling you."  
  
"Oh," George says. " _Oh._ Um, alright. Yours or mine then?"  
  
Josh kisses the scruff of Oreo's neck. "Your bed is bigger."  
  
"It's not bigger, it's just not full of old laundry and crumbs," George sighs. "But sure, it can stand a bit of cat hair."  
  
"You put on this grumpy front, but you love me and my cat, really," Josh says full of conviction and then turns to lead the way to George's bedroom. That's probably entirely too true.  
  
It's easy to fold up into bed with Josh and the cat, like George has done it a thousand times, even though he hasn't ever before. The blanket's pushed to around their waists because it's getting warmer with the approaching day and Oreo goes a bit crazy everytime you cover him with something. He's curled up between their chests right now, both of them curving to give him room. George is looking down at him and feeling the gentle vibrations of his purr with his fingers, so he only notices how close that position puts their heads when Josh starts speaking again.  
  
"Thanks for helping, again. I was freaking out a bit."  
  
"I know," George says. "I know you well enough to know that, at least. And I was too, a bit. After all, I could never catch my own mice."  
  
"Good you have us to watch out for you then," Josh says. George tilts his head back to grin at Josh, blinking a bit at the sudden proximity.  
  
"Mhm. You have to, what with being bigger and stronger and better at foraging food."  
  
"You're good at foraging other things," Josh offers. "Shark lamps. Pinball machines."  
  
"Very necessary for survival," George says seriously.  
  
Josh smiles just enough that his crooked eyetooth peeks out from between his lips. George is very fond of that tooth. "Yeah," Josh says. He nestles his head down on George's pillow. "You are."  
  
George blinks in surprise and bites his lip against the smile spreading on his own face. Josh's eyes are a bit hooded and tired but happy. So when Oreo lifts his head under George's hand, he just pushes it down again and scratches him behind the ears to keep him there because he will not be foiled by this cat again. Not this time.  
  
Not this time.  
  
He leans over Oreo's furry little body and plants his lips on Josh's mouth.  
  
There's a moment that feels like an eternity in George's head where Josh doesn't react and he has just enough time to panic about having read every single thing about them in the past few weeks completely wrong. But then Josh presses back against his lips, _kisses_ back and puts a hand on his cheek gently.  
  
Before taking it away again.  
  
There's another flicker of nerves boiling up in George's stomach and out of his mouth in a confused sort of noise, but then there's Josh's hand next to his hand and an indignant _mraow!_ as the soft fur slips from underneath George's fingers. It takes the soft _thu-thud_ of Oreo jumping off the bed for George to catch on. Josh lifted Oreo out of the way. To kiss him better.  
  
 _George: 1, Oreo: 0._  
  
Well. George: 1, Oreo: At least a thousand, but. One is better than nothing. Once is just the first time, George thinks, rolling over to perch atop Josh. Once is just the beginning.

 


End file.
